Cold Cases and Chill
by Write-To-You
Summary: John and Sherlock get tangled up in a messy case filled with gangs, walk in freezers, and confusing codes. (AKA my attempt at writing a legitimate Sherlock episode :)


**Author's Note: Helloooooo Sherlock fans! Glad to see you back for a new story :)**

Everything was icy cold, and John couldn't feel his fingers or toes.

He looked around, squinting at the grey walls of what appeared to be a walk in freezer. His mind throbbed with cold and he frowned, trying to concentrate.

How had he ended up here?

 **12 Hours Earlier...**

 **8:00 AM:**

"Lestrade," Sherlock said into his phone. He was standing in the kitchen of flat 221b, staring at the spot where he could have sworn the milk had just been.

"Morning, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted. "I've got a case for you."

"A case," Sherlock repeated. "What _kind_ of case?"

"A _chilly_ kind," Lestrade said, laughing afterward in a way that you did after you've made an inside joke.

Sherlock didn't get it. Which, he supposed, was why it seemed like an inside joke. He hated inside jokes.

"Right," Sherlock said, walking out of the kitchen and into the living room. John, sitting in his chair, glanced up from the paper and raised his eyebrow. "Well, is it worth my time?"

"I think you'll find it-" Lestrade was definitely snickering now. "Rather _cool_."

Sherlock made a face and hung up. "Well, I think I can say that our friend George has officially gone off his rocker."

John frowned. "George? Who's George?" Then he rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, it's _Greg_."

"Whatever," Sherlock grumbled, throwing on his scarf and coat and turning up the collar as he strode out the door.

John rolled his eyes, scrambling for his things, and rushed to follow.

 **8:07 AM:**

"Ah, Sherlock, you're here," Lestrade greeted them at the door of the Scotland Yard with a grin. "Wasn't sure if you'd show up."

"Neither was I," Sherlock said, flashing him one of his large fake-smiles and pushing past him to the entrance.

The three of them passed through the building until they reached Lestrade's office. The Detective Inspector tossed John three case files. "Take a look."

John opened them up and Sherlock peered over his shoulder. "Serial killer?"

"That's right," Lestrade agreed. "All three of his victims frozen to death. Found in the walk-in freezers of different restaurants, blue all over."

John pulled a face. "Don't think I'll be eating at any of those restaurants any time soon."

Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock didn't seem to have heard John's joke, or maybe he just didn't care. He closed the case files with satisfying slaps and handed them back to Lestrade. "Right, John, we're off to see Molly."

John was once again forced to hurry his pace in order to keep up with his flatmate as they rushed out of the building and toward St. Bart's.

 **8:15 AM:**

"Molly!" Sherlock bellowed as he and John strode importantly down the hallway of St. Bard's. Well, it was really Sherlock to the important striding; John looked as uncomfortable as ever.

"What?" Molly all but leapt out of her lab, looking alarmed. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Come on." He grabbed her arm and began to drag her down the steps to the morgue. "I have three bodies I need to look at and I don't have all day."

Molly exchanged looks with John, who wince-smiled sympathetically as she shook Sherlock off. "Names?"

"Cooper Lawson, Arnold Smith, Chase Reeling," Sherlock fired off from memory.

"Another serial killer?" Molly asked casually as she searched her files for the location of the bodies.

"Obviously."

"I was wondering why so many of the bodies coming in were blue," Molly said, smiling at her own attempt at humor.

Sherlock didn't even try to smile. John coughed.

"Right, right, you don't have all day," Molly mumbled, blushing as she whipped back to her files.

Soon, three very pale, very dead bodies were being pulled out of their storage shelves. Molly tapped each one as she named them. "This one's Cooper, this one's Arnold, and this one, obviously, is Chase. Chase is the most recent—he came in just three days ago. Arnold arrived... nine days ago, and Cooper, hang on-"

"Arrived six days ago," Sherlock interrupted as Molly started to search the file.

"How do you know that?" John asked, eyebrows scrunching.

"Read the file already," Sherlock said shortly, gaze scanning over each body in quick succession. "Hmmm... They were all smokers, as you can see by the nicotine under their nails and the condition of their teeth-"

"You can't even see there teeth!" John protested.

"I looked them up on the way here." Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if it was obvious. "What did you think I was doing, John? Texting?"

"Well, I-"

"Shush," Sherlock interrupted, waving his hand at his flatmate. "I'm thinking."

He opened up his magnifying glass and peered at Cooper's fingernails. Then he stood perfectly still, hands resting on the metal of the dead man's bed. Abruptly, he spun and strode out of the room.

John groaned, waving a quick goodbye to Molly and running after him. "Sherlock! Where are we going?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

 **9:12 AM:**

It took them nearly an hour to talk to each of the vicim's mothers. Mrs. Lawson had been the easiest, willing to supply all the information on her son's activities and friends after Sherlock said he was with the police.

Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Reeling were less forthcoming, but Sherlock knew what he was looking for by that point.

"Does your son favor any bars?" he asked pointedly to Mrs. Reeling. "Maybe... Mick's?"

Mrs. Reeling huffed. "What bars my son liked were none of my concern," she said stiffly. Her eyes were red, like she had been crying. Granted, her son had died recently so she probably had been.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Sherlock said, leaping to his feet. "Come on, John. We have a bar to visit."

They had arrived at the bar without a hitch, only to find that it was closed.

"We'll just have to come back later," John said as Sherlock tried the door again.

"No, no, no," Sherlock squinted through the keyhole, trying to see inside. "No, somethings off." He frowned, contemplating for a moment, then spun, pointing his finger at John. "Ah hah! This isn't the front entrance. Or even an entrance at all."

"Sherlock, there's a door right there. Why would they have a door if it's not an entrance?"

"It's rusted over, John," Sherlock explained, gesturing to the hinges. "This bar must have been frequented, or the men wouldn't have gone here."

"How do you even know they went here?" John asked in exasperation.

"Pictures, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, sticking his finger in the air, "Pictures. All three men had pictures on there Facebook pages of them, in this bar. Stupid mistake on their part, really. People these days really are slipping."

"Do you think they knew each other?" John asked, surprised. "Why didn't Mrs. Lawson mention any Arnold Smiths or Chase Reelings?"

"Because _she_ didn't know them," Sherlock said, setting off around the side of the building. He scanned the walls, a look of deep concentration on his face, then kept going to the next side. "My guess—or should I say, highly educated hypothesis that is most certainly correct—is that these three men were apart of a gang."

"A gang?" John sucked in a breath, trying to keep ahold of the slippery thing called patience. "And how on Earth did you get _that_?"

"Honestly John, I would think that after all these years solving crimes with me you would start to have a brain that could actually think for itself," Sherlock grumped, not finding what he wanted at the back of the building and vaulting neatly over a fence to get at the last side. John rolled his eyes and followed, awkwardly hoisting both legs over the side of the fence and getting back on the ground.

Sherlock was already halfway down the last wall of Mick's Bar by the time he reached him, and he started talking almost immediately. "You might have noticed that there was a tattoo of a star with a dot in every point on the back each man's hand. It represents a gang that has been dealing drugs and cigarettes for the past few months in the slums of London."

John felt a bit like a broken record, but today really wasn't his day in the brains department. " _And how do you know that?!_ Don't tell me you've been trying to buy drugs again, Sherlock. Molly would kill you. And I wouldn't be particularly pleased either."

"No, I haven't been trying to buy drugs again," Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes. "I recognized the tattoo from another case I solved a few weeks ago."

"Which one?" John frowned, not remembering any cases about gangs or drug dealers that they had solved recently.

"You never heard about it," Sherlock answered. He had begun to kick away the rubble and junk lying on the ground, and John helped him, though he wasn't exactly sure what he was doing. "I solved it in five minutes by looking at the crime scene photos. You were out getting milk."

"It's always the milk," John huffed.

Sherlock grinned. "By the way, we don't have any."

He reached down and yanked up a trapdoor, conveniently hidden in the ground. John threw up his hands and followed him down. This was one strange bar.

There was a short ladder leading from the trapdoor to a small passageway. John could see light filtering under the crack of a large door ahead of them, and he followed Sherlock towards it.

Sherlock yanked on the handle and it opened immediately, unlocked. Light and noise spilled into the passageway, and John peered in over his flatmates shoulder.

The bar was surprisingly filled for the time of day. Most of the patrons were men, but there was a smattering of lanky women with gorgeous features and hair around the room, too.

John glanced around, taking all the lights and people in. Sherlock sent him a look. "If you're trying to figure out if all the women have boyfriends, don't. They do."

John choked, his face going a brilliant scarlet. "Wh- _What did you just say_?!" he spluttered. "Sherlock Holmes, we are on a case! I'm not thinking about my love life in the middle of a sleazy bar!"

A few people looked over. One of the larger, beefier guys raised his eyebrow. John gulped.

"Please _try_ to contain your outbursts to a volume level of zero while we are in a bar we don't belong in," Sherlock muttered to him, grabbing his arm and dragging him deeper into the mess of the sketchiest parts of humanity.

"In other words, shut up."

"I was being creative," Sherlock shrugged, grinning at him.

John rolled his eyes and followed his flatmate to the bar. Sherlock flashed a charming smile at the bored looking bartender and slapped three pictures on the countertop. "Hello, nice to meet you. I was wondering if you knew these men."

The bartender gave him a weird look and slowly looked over the pictures. "Yup, I know 'em. Most everybody does 'round these parts."

John exchanged a smirk with Sherlock. This guy was a belonged in an old west movie. John wouldn't have been surprised to see him whip a cowboy hat from under the bar and flash a pistol at his waist. Alarmed, maybe, but not surprised.

"Right, yes, that's simply lovely," Sherlock said. "Now would you be able to tell me if there was ever a fourth man with them? Maybe he sat at the same table or would buy them drinks...?"

The bartender frowned in concentration. "I dunno, mate," he muttered. "Lots o' people come by here. I think maybe I saw a man with them a couple o' times... large, 'bout their age, maybe..."

"Excuse me, but I think I might be able to help you boys."

John and Sherlock both turned to see the large, beefy guy who had watched them come in. He was covered from head to toe in tattoos, a long red scratch disappearing into the hem of his shirt. Sherlock's eyes squinted for a half second, taking all of it in.

"If you'll just follow me," the man said nodding over his shoulder, "I think I know someone who would be able to tell you who you're looking for."

"John," Sherlock muttered, nudging him. "I think we should leave."

John frowned. "But Sherlock, he was just about to-"

"John, _now_ ," Sherlock commanded, grabbing his elbow. He nodded at the large man. "Thank you, you've given me everything I need already."

Confused but noting the urgency in Sherlock's voice, John stumbled after him. He waited until they were outside the bar and halfway down the block before speaking. "What the heck was that about? He was going to give us our first solid lead!"

"It was _him_ , John," Sherlock hissed. "The man. The murderer. The one we're looking for."

"What?" John gaped at him. "How do you know?"

"Tattoo of a star with a dot in each point on the back of his hand. Long scratch marks on his neck, most likely from when Cooper attacked him in defense of himself. When I checked out the bodies in the morgue, Cooper had flakes of skin underneath his nails. Now, it could be a coincidence, but I think that a simple DNA test would prove otherwise."

"Then what are we waiting for?" John asked. "Let's call Greg and nab him!"

But Sherlock shook his head. "No. We don't have enough proof. For all we know, Cooper just attacked someone else in his gang and it wasn't the murderer."

"Alright then," John said, changing courses. "Let's head back in there and get him to help us figure out who the murderer is."

"Don't you think I would have done that if I wasn't sure that _he_ was the murderer?" Sherlock asked, annoyed, probably with John's lack of brain cells or something. "He had three knifes on his person and a gun hidden in the waist band of his jeans. When he said, 'follow me', he was really saying, 'come over here so I can kill you and no one will ever know'."

"Oh," John said dumbly. "Alright then."

Sherlock waved his hand, hailing a taxi. "221b, Baker Street," he commanded the driver, sliding into the caba and waving at John to join him. "Let's head back home. I need to dig up that old case."

 **10:28 AM:**

"Alright," Sherlock muttered, opening up John's computer and starting to dig through his emails. "Let's see if I can find it."

John frowned. "Why are you looking at my emails?" he asked, a little uncomfortable. "Shouldn't you look through your own if this was a case you did by yourself?"

"Well, it was a case that was on your computer," Sherlock explained calmly, going into John's trash and using the search box. "I just happened to be on your computer when the case came in. I also solved it on your computer, and deleted the email on your computer. So why would I look through my own emails?"

John threw up his hands, falling back into his chair. "Of course," he huffed. "I'm not even going to ask why you were on _my_ computer when you have a perfectly good one yourself."

"Good," Sherlock said, flashing him a quick grin. "Now be quiet; I'm trying to remember what was in the email."

"Let's just hope you didn't delete it from you're oh-so-amazing brain," John muttered grumpily. "Or we could be here for a _very_ long time."

Sherlock just waved him off and shut his eyes, face twitching every so often. He shook his head a couple of times, muttering, "No, no, no, too dull, no. No."

John leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and waited.

A couple of minutes later, Sherlock's eyes shot open and he recited in a high, womanish voice: "Dear Mr. Holmes. My son has been dealing with a few very strange men lately and I would like you to look into it. He has been acting very weirdly- all his life he has been terrified by needles but just last week he got a tattoo on the back of his hand of a star. Not only that, but he has been gone nearly every night until the most unearthly of times. I'm worried about him. Please help me. Mrs. Allen."

"So the tattoo," John translated. "You think that's the same one that was on the backs of all the men's hands."

"Precisely," Sherlock agreed. "And I think that dear Mrs. Allen's son—who is obviously apart of this gang—is in danger."

 **10:46 AM:**

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, hands wrapped behind his head. "Let me get this straight. You think that Christopher Allen is in danger of being stuck in a freezer just because he happens to be apart of this gang? Couldn't it be someone else?"

"Impossible," Sherlock said. "Which you would know if you would actually think about it."

"Sherlock," John warned.

Sherlock made a face. "Fine. I will lay it out once more. One of the things I found out about this gang is that there can never be more then five people in it. It's one of the reasons they use a star with five points to be their label. Three of those people are dead. One of them is the murderer. And the last one is Christopher Allen."

Lestrade nodded, very slowly. "You're sure he's even still apart of the gang? Or that they didn't replace him?"

"The gang broke up two months ago," Sherlock informed him. "I made sure of that. But it seems that our killer didn't like that very much—or the fact that his fellow gang members agreed to it."

"And that's why he's going through and killing all of them," Lestrade realized. "One more thing, though. How can you be sure that Allen isn't the killer?"

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. It was John's turn to answer a question, "Because... well, we ran into him earlier today. At a bar."

"By that point there was no definite proof that he was the killer," Sherlock said quickly, before Lestrade could say something about calling the police to arrest him. "But I know that he's not Chris Allen, and there's no one else he could be."

Lestrade shook his head, "Alright. I trust your judgement. So what's the next step?"

"We need to find Chris Allen," Sherlock said, squinting thoughtfully. "And we need to figure out exactly where he's going to be tonight. There's a pattern. The killer freezes a member of his gang every three days."

John frowned, thinking back on the days the other men had been brought in. "You're right," he realized, though it wasn't like it was much of a surprise.

"Any idea where to find him?" Lestrade asked, getting to his feet. "I can assemble a team and we can nab the killer before he can make another human-popsicle."

Sherlock's face darkened, and it was evident that he was thinking hard. After a moment he released his breath. "I'm not sure," he admitted reluctantly. "Yet."

He spun around. "Let's go, John. We need to talk to Mrs. Allen and find out where her son is."

 **11:00 AM:**

"Mrs. Allen!" Sherlock called, knocking on the apartment door in front of him. They were in a small, beaten down apartment complex, at door 102. If Sherlock remembered correctly- which he always did- this was where Mrs. Allen lived. "Mrs. Allen, open up!"

John heard a chain unhook on the other side of the door and a woman poked her head through the crack. She had dark hair, stained grey at the roots, and a very small nose. "What do you- Oh. It's you."

"Yes, it's me." Sherlock yanked the door away from her grasp and rudely let himself in, John trailing awkwardly behind him. "We have reason to believe that your son is in danger."

Mrs. Allen's face went pale. "Chris?" she breathed, sinking into a chair. "In danger? But I thought he was away from all of that awful drug dealing and gang activities."

"He is," John said quickly. The poor woman looked like she might faint. "But it seems that the gang activities aren't quite done with him."

Mrs. Allen passed a hand over her face. "Oh dear. Oh my. What has he gotten himself into this time?"

"Do you know where your son is, Mrs. Allen?" Sherlock asked brusquely, ignoring her questions. "Please don't waste time with blubbering; we are on a bit of a time crunch."

John raised his eyebrow, sending Sherlock his trademark 'Bit Not Good' look. Sherlock pulled a face. "Uh... please."

Mrs. Allen quickly pulled herself to her feet. "I'll give him a call right now," she murmured, bustling towards the phone that was sitting on a table in her office.

John and Sherlock made themselves comfortable on the couch in the living room and waited.

A couple minutes later, she came back in, looking like a nervous wreck. "I couldn't reach him," she murmured. "Oh dear, what if something terrible's happened?"

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. "Keep trying him," John said. "I'll give you my number in case you reach him so you can get in contact with us."

He and Sherlock quickly left the building. Sherlock's face was creased in concentration, and John sent him a look. "Tell me you had a plan B."

"I had a plan B," Sherlock said automatically. John raised his eyebrow. "Ok, no, I didn't have a plan B," he grumbled, scrubbing his hands through his wild hair. "I was counting on being able to reach Chris and get him to tell us his plans for the evening. He must be going to a restaurant, John! He must be!"

"Alright, alright; calm down," John said. "For all we know the timing of the kill being every three days was a coincidence. I mean, how could the killer know for sure that each man was going to eat out three days apart from each other at a restaurant that happened to have a walk in freezer?"

Sherlock spun to him. "You're right!"

"I am?"

"Yes... _yes yes yes!_ That's exactly the thing I was missing! He must _ask them_ to come to the restaurant. How else could it be so planned and work out so perfectly? They're playing right into his hands." Sherlock once again rubbed his fingers through his hair, but this time it was in an excited way, forcing his brain to work faster.

"Alright, so what do we do?" John asked, trying to keep the thought process moving as quickly as possible. "We need to find a way to either get in touch with Chris or figure out how the killer contacted him in some other way."

Sherlock turned on his heel and raced back to apartment 102. "Mrs. Allen!" he yelled, banging on the door.

She opened it immediately, her face drained of color, phone once again pressed to her ear. "What is it? What's wrong? Did you hear from Chris?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly. "Where does he live? I need an address right now."

Six minutes later Sherlock and John were racing down the apartment complex's stairs and hailing a cab.

 **11:54 AM**

Chris lived in a rundown flat with grey stone walls. He wasn't home.

Sherlock cursed and banged his fist against the door. "Come on, Chris!" he bellowed. "Let us in!"

"Break down the door or something," John suggested, lack of action and need to get this case solved making him fidgety. "We have to figure out how the killer is contacting his old gang-mates and what he's got planned for Chris."

Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his hair with a growl. Then he backed up. "Step back," he ordered John, and ran at the door.

It broke in easily, and John had a small niggling suspicion that it might not have even been locked. Feeling a little stupid for not checking, he followed Sherlock inside.

The flat was empty save for a few worn down pieces of furniture and a couple of trinkets along shelves. They were standing in the living room, which held a couch and a coffee table. They were both scuffed, and looked like the kind of things you would find on the side of the road with a "free" sign taped to them.

Sherlock scanned the room carefully. "There's no sign of forced entry or a struggle so my guess is that Chris is just... out."

"Right." John nodded his agreement. "Normal. Just out."

The two of them exchanged glances and then immediately went to work searching through Chris' belongings.

"We need to find a computer or a phone," Sherlock said, scanning the countertops of the living room in the flat. "Then we can go through and see if he's been contacted by our killer in any way."

"Isn't that illegal?" John asked, pausing in his search to raise an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock grinned. "Quite."

He straightened up and scanned the room once more. "John! You're a normal human being. Where do you keep your computer and phone?"

Ignoring the "normal human being" bit, John frowned. "I dunno. Depends on the day, I guess. My computer mostly stays on the table in the living room or in the kitchen, and my phone is in my pocket when it's not charging."

"Charging!" Sherlock stuck his finger in the air triumphantly. "Perfect."

"Sherlock, he might have his phone on him-"

"Not his phone," Sherlock corrected, searching the walls and floors. "His computer. The killer would send an email. People are more likely to check their email when they are alone. He wouldn't want to risk sending a text that other people could see; he wouldn't want to attract that kind of attention to himself. He could send an email from any address, and even delete the address once he made it. A phone number is more difficult to change or delete—it takes time and you can't do it yourself."

"Right," John agreed. "So we're looking for a computer in the slim hopes that he didn't delete the email from his trash already."

"It's worth a shot," Sherlock shrugged. "Most people don't think about deleting their trash when they don't think anyone is going to be looking through it."

"He was apart of a gang, though," John argued, finding a door and opening it to reveal a tiny, messy bedroom. Sherlock followed him in. "Probably overly cautious."

Sherlock ignored the argument and beelined for the far wall. There, on the grimy floor, was a chunky, beat up computer. He lunged for it and hopped onto Chris' bed, John not far behind.

It took him approximately 12 seconds to figure out the password of Chris' computer (John still wasn't quite sure _how_ he didn't, and Sherlock didn't take the time to explain) and open his email.

"Check the trash first," John suggested needlessly. "Then if it's not there and we have time we can check his inbox."

Sherlock nodded and he selected the search box, his fingers hovering over the keys. Then they started to move.

 _D-I-N-N-E-R_

John frowned. 877 matches. This was going to take them forever.

"It would be close to the top," Sherlock reasoned, starting to scan through the emails. "A recent email."

"Unless he planned it awhile back," John countered, reading over his shoulder. "Wait. Stop there."

Sherlock clicked on the seventh message, peering at what seemed to be a bunch of gibberish all over the page. He made a soft tsking noise. "Honestly, people have no idea how to make worthwhile codes anymore."

"Can you understand it?" John asked, peering closer to the screen as if it would make the words clearer.

"Well, not yet," Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. "But the fact that we could look at this email and both immediately tell it was the one we were looking for- and that it was a code- tells me that this killer really doesn't know what he's doing. The key to a code is _disguise_. You don't want something that looks like a code. You want something that looks normal and blends in."

"Right." John wasn't sure if he saw the importance, but he thought he understood Sherlock's point. "So this guy in an amateur at making codes that don't look like codes. That still doesn't help us figure out this one."

Sherlock's mouth twisted. "John, shut up for six minutes."

"Six-"

"Six minutes starting _now_ ," Sherlock said in a way that clearly told John he wasn't asking.

He squinted at the page.

IMSDEASDEASDFTASDFG- NMHJEHJK- TAYUTYUI- HBQWOQWEUQWERLQWERTDQWERTYEQWERTYURQWERTYUISQWERTYUIO- EBZXUZXCRZXCVBGZXCVBNEZXCVBNMRZXCVBNMLSZXCVBNMLK-BAGHTGHJ- ASEREERTVERTYEERTYUNERTYUI

CWASEASD- KNGHEGHJEGHJKDGHJKL- STEROERT- RTWEAWERLWERTKWERTY

After what felt like an eternity, he sat back. "Meet me at Boulder's Burgers at seven. We need to talk."

John stared at him in amazement. "How did you- this is just- that was so fast-how-?"

"It's a simple code, if you know what you're looking for. A little cleverer then I would have expected for a criminal of his... standard. The trick is to start by looking for the words you know will most likely be there. In this case, I guessed—correctly, of course—that the first word would be 'meet'."

Sherlock pointed at the screen. " 'A **M** SD **E** ASD **E** ASDF **T** ASDFG.' Every time there's more gibberish between the letters, there is one more letter. It starts with one random letter, before the first correct letter. Then two random letters, then three, then four. That pattern continued for the rest of the words. Once I figured it out, it was simple."

"Right," John sighed. "Simple."

"Never mind my brilliance." Sherlock jumped to his feet, quickly deleting his computer search and plugging the device back in. "We need to find Boulder's Burgers, and Chris."

 **12:38 PM:**

"You guys had lunch yet?" Lestrade asked as he walked up to John and Sherlock's cab. They were just back from Chris' apartment, brimming with success at finding out the murderer's plan.

As if on cue, John's stomach growled loudly. Sherlock sent him a demeaning glance. "Of course not. You know I don't eat when I'm working a case."

"I was mostly asking John," Lestrade said, amused. He rooted around in the takeout back he was holding and tossed John half a sandwich. "Here; I'm done."

"Thanks, mate," John said, too hungry to argue.

He ate the sandwich as Sherlock quickly filled Lestrade in. The Detective Inspector took the new information in stride, knowing better then to ask them how they got it. "Alright. I'll get a team over there. We'll ambush this guy before he can even make contact with Chris. You two will be able to identify him from your encounter at the bar when they come into the restaurant?"

Sherlock nodded. "Let's go, John."

"Where are we going?" John asked, swallowing the last bite of sandwich and tossing the trash in a bin on the side of the road.

"Back to 221b," Sherlock answered, hailing a cab. "I do believe that there's nothing else we can do but wait."

 **6:23 PM:**

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair, his fingers tapping the strings of his violin. John was trying to focus on his book but anticipation for that night was eating at him.

"Let's go over the plan one more time," he said finally, setting down his book.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I already know it."

"Yes, well, we're going over it for me, not you," John grumbled. "We're going to get seats inside the restaurant and wait for either Chris or the killer to come in."

"And then we're going to wait until the killer makes his move," Sherlock continued.

John pulled up short, frowning. "What? That's not apart of the plan."

"It's not apart of _Lestrade's_ plan, no," Sherlock agreed, giving him a mischievous grin. "But it's apart of _mine_. See, we don't have any solid proof that this other gang member is the serial killer. We can arrest him, but there is a chance that he could get off the hook when the charge is taken to court."

He laid his fingers together, peering at John over the top of them. "So, I have developed my own plan that makes much more certain that he will get arrested and stay that way."

John leaned foreword, rubbing his forehead. "And what, exactly, does this plan entail?"

"Now we're getting somewhere." Sherlock leapt to his feet and began to pace the well worn living room carpet. "You and I will get a table at Boulder's, as planned. Once the killer and Chris enter the restaurant, we'll follow their every move (wearing disguises of course, so as not to be spotted) and make sure that Chris is accounted for at all times. Then once the killer decides that he's going to drag Chris off to the freezer, we'll be there to catch him. We can record the whole thing and then there will be no doubt of his guilt."

"Is that what you were doing these past few hours?" John asked, staring as Sherlock whipped up a pair of fake glasses with a small camera attached to them. "Making disguises?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They had to be well done, John. Not too noticeable or we would blend in about as much as that code I unscrambled, but not too weak, or the killer would recognize us."

"And what if he disguises himself, too?" John asked, crossing his arms. "What if we don't even know who he is?"

Sherlock sent him a disappointed look and slid on the glasses. "When have I even _not_ known who someone is?"

 **6:59 PM:**

"Don't see why I have to wear the mustache," John grumbled under his breath as he and Sherlock were seated at Boulder's Burgers. Luckily for them, the restaurant was not a very popular place and they were able to secure seats that had a good view of the entire room. "I could have done the glasses and the hat."

"Trust me, the mustache isn't doing anything for my eyes either," Sherlock said, smirking. "But I made the costumes, which means I got to pick which ones I wanted."

John rolled his eyes. " 'Made the costumes'. More like stole them from the precinct months ago when no one was looking."

"Well," Sherlock said, ignoring the point of John's sentence. "If I had stolen them when someone _was_ looking it wouldn't have been a particularly effective crime, now would it?"

John half-laughed-half-groaned, resisting the urge to scratch his face.

They ordered meals and tried to act like they were two normal mates have a normal dinner. It was a rather tough face to keep up, though. John kept glancing at his watch and Sherlock couldn't focus on anything save for scanning the restaurant and keeping tabs on the door. It made conversation nearly impossible.

By the time their food arrived, it was nearly 7:30 and John was getting impatient. "What if they called it off?" he speculated in a low voice, leaning foreword over his plate. "What if he somehow figured out we were on to him and sent Chris another email?"

"No." Sherlock screwed up his face in concentration. "No, something's not right here."

He shut his eyes, and John could see them flitting back and forth underneath his eyelids. Then, abruptly, he went still.

"In the back. SR."

"What?" John asked, confused. "In the back? SR?"

"It seems that message was more clever then we thought." Sherlock leapt to his feet, and began to run towards the kitchen. A few other patrons looked up, giving them surprised glances.

"What are you talking about?" John called after him, grabbing his napkin from his lap and tossing it on the table. He stood up, running after Sherlock. "The email?"

"Yes, John, the email!" Sherlock cried in exasperation. "The first letter of every word spelled it's own message! **IN THE BACK SR.** "

 **I** MSDEASDEASDFTASDFG- **N** MHJEHJK- **T** AYUTYUI- **H** BQWOQWEUQWERLQWERTDQWERTYEQWERTYURQWERTYUISQWERTYUIO- **E** BZXUZXCRZXCVBGZXCVBNEZXCVBNMRZXCVBNMLSZXCVBNMLK- **B** AGHTGHJ- **A** SEREERTVERTYEERTYUNERTYUI

 **C** WASEASD- **K** NGHEGHJEGHJKDGHJKL- **S** TEROERT- **R** TWEAWERLWERTKWERTY

"Okay, okay," John nodded along with the revelation and grabbed the swinging doors to the kitchen before they could slam shut. "So who's SR?"

Sherlock spun with a wild grin. "Why, the murderer, of course-"

He was cut off when a hand grasped him around the mouth. John felt someone grab him as well and struggled in the tight grip, arms flailing for his gun.

The two of them were dragged bodily through the kitchen, and John's blood ran cold when he saw a large steel door in front of them.

Then everything went black.

 **8:00 PM:**

Everything was icy cold, and John couldn't feel his fingers or toes.

He looked around, squinting at the grey walls of what appeared to be a walk in freezer. His mind throbbed with cold and he frowned, trying to concentrate.

How had he ended up here?

Beside him, someone groaned. John looked over to find Sherlock peering up at him. He had a large bump on the top of his head, but otherwise looked unharmed.

"We were tricked," Sherlock groaned, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. "Chris and the killer... they were working together."

"How do you reckon that?" John asked, joining him in sitting up and stretching the kinks of out his neck. He checked his watch. They had been there for a half hour already. It was no wonder that John couldn't feel his feet.

"Well, he grabbed you around the head and knocked you out."

"Oh," John muttered. "That makes sense."

They sat in silence for a moment, shivering. Then Sherlock got up an inspected the door. "Locked from the outside," he reported. "Makes sense. There's be no point on an inside lock- who's going to use it, the meat?"

John snorted, joints creaking with cold as he stood. His bad shoulder throbbed slightly. "Or maybe those odd few folks who get themselves stuck in the freezer?"

Sherlock cracked a grin. He looked around and, finding nothing else to use, slammed his hand against the freezer door.

The muffled clang rang out loudly inside their prison. John winced at the sound and the pain it caused his head. "Right, don't know if anyone's going to hear that."

"There was no one in the kitchen," Sherlock said with a frown. "It's a Friday night and the restaurant had patrons. Why was there no one in the kitchen?"

"Maybe Chris and the killer... SR... whoever he is... took care of them?" John suggested, choosing not to think about exactly _how_ that would have been done.

"Maybe..." Sherlock murmured, not sounding convinced. "Then why were there no other bodies at any of the other crime scenes? No, no, no, this was planned. This was planned."

"What, you think that Chris was working with the man who's going to kill him all along?" John asked incredulously, shivering. "That doesn't make much sense, even for you. You sure the cold isn't getting to your head?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to pace the small amount of room inside the freezer. "Very funny. Yes, I think that Chris is working with the killer. I think that that wasn't originally the plan, however. Chris had something that that killer wanted. Something he could give him to save his own life. And so they worked together to- Oh. Oh, I see now. He had _us_."

"Us?" John frowned, staring up at him.

"Yes, _us_ ," Sherlock groaned, rubbing his face. "He had the promise of capturing us. Chris somehow knew that we would be in Boulder's at 7:00. He knew that we had read his email. And so he gave SR something he wanted quite a bit- to stop the detective that was going to spoil all his plans by tracking him down. In return, SR didn't kill him."

"And now we're stuck in a freezer," John said, leaning back and letting out a long sigh. "Well. That's one way to save a man's life."

 **8:15 PM:**

A couple of minutes passed before Sherlock gave up on trying to contact Lestrade. Their phones were both too cold to function and even John's watch had stopped. They were forced to huddle on the floor and wait.

"D-do you th-th-think they n-notice w-were g-g-g-gone?" John stuttered, teeth rattling.

"Who?" Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter around him and shuddered. "Lestrade and the imbeciles of Scotland Yard? Probably. Eventually."

"It's just a matter of whether or not we're going to be icicles by the time that happens," John sighed. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew. They were white tipped and he was beginning to worry about frostbite.

"Body heat," Sherlock said suddenly. "Body heat will generate enough warmth for us to survive."

"Uh, right," John looked at him uncomfortably. "So are you just gonna...?"

Sherlock moved over and wrapped his large coat around the both of them. John made a face. It was a bit awkward, cuddling with his best mate like he was, but he supposed they had to put survival over comfort.

"You do realize," he said, after a semi-uncomfortable silence had reigned for a full seven minutes. "That if people find us like this the talking is never going to stop."

Sherlock snorted with laughter, a grin spreading across his face. "Like it was going to anyway."

John laughed, shivered, and both of them stayed where they were.

 **8:32 PM:**

Lestrade finally came looking for the both of them after he had received no response from his frequent attempts to contact them through the com. He waved his backup in and quickly stormed through the restaurant. There was a suspicious lack of cooks and waitresses throughout the building, and Lestrade had the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.

It was Sally Donovan who caught sight of the walk-in freezer. "Over here, boss!" she called, and it wasn't long before they were breaking down the door.

They found John and Sherlock curled up together on the floor of the freezer, frost covering their eyebrows and lips a matching shade of purple.

"Get them out of here!" Lestrade ordered. "And someone call an ambulance!"

A few cops ran foreword and carefully brought Sherlock and John out of the freezer. Lestrade slammed the door shut and rubbed his hands through his short hair.

"Where is the target?!" he bellowed. "And the killer? How did they escape?"

"I don't know, sir," Sally murmured, watching the paramedics swarm around John and Sherlock like ants around a picnic. She shook her head. "I'm glad we got here when we did. I have a feeling that that call was a bit closer then some of the others we've had."

Lestrade shuddered, following her out of the restaurant as a few other police officers searched the kitchen and freezer for evidence.

He found Sherlock and John in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in heated blankets, awake.

"Gillian," Sherlock greeted with a nod. "Nice of you to find us."

John nudged him. " _Greg_ ," he hissed. "His name is _Greg_."

"Right, right, of course," Sherlock said with an air that mirrored one of talking tolerantly to a young child. "Whatever you say, John."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he said. "Glad to see you two awake. Could you give me a brief rundown on what happened?"

"Sounds dull," Sherlock said at the same time John agreed with a, "sure, mate."

They glanced at each other, rolled their eyes, and looked back at Lestrade. John stood up, wrapped the blanket more tightly around him. "We figured out that we were looking for Chris and SR in the wrong place-"

"SR?" Lestrade frowned, and stopped digging in his coat pocket for a notepad. "Who's SR?"

"It's the killer's initials. Honestly, Lestrade, do keep up," Sherlock grumped before John could answer. "What basically happened was that I deduced that they were in the back of the kitchen. When we arrived, they ambushed us-"

"Wait, both of them?" Lestrade was scribbling frantically, but his pencil paused at Sherlock's words. "I thought that Chris was the victim?"

"Turns out that's not the case," John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sherlock is inclined to believe that Chris traded capturing us for his life, but there's no way to know-"

"When have I _ever_ been wrong?" Sherlock asked, leaping to his feet and letting the blanket drop.

John glared at him so fiercely that he actually pulled up short. "Sherlock Holmes, you put that blanket back on right now. Your lips haven't gotten any less blue and there is still the risk of catching cold."

"Catching cold," Sherlock scoffed, though Lestrade noticed that he picked up the blanket again, albeit sullenly. "I don't _catch cold_."

"Uh huh." John nodded at Lestrade. "We're going to head back to 221b; text if you find anything out."

"Right," Lestrade agreed.

He watched them go, matching blankets slung over their shoulders, and let out a sigh.

 **9:11 PM:**

John scrubbed a hand across his face and yawned. He had been watching Sherlock pace the living room of 221b for the past twenty minutes, tea held in his loose grip.

Suddenly, Sherlock spun and pointed dramatically at his flatmate. "JOHN! If you were a killer, where would you hide?!"

John blinked at him. "Uh... I've really got no idea, Sherlock."

"Of course you don't." Sherlock threw up his hands and spun in a circle. "Because you're not a killer!"

"That... yes. No. I'm not a killer." John shook his head. "What are you trying to accomplish here?"

Sherlock growled, mussing up his hair with his fingertips. "We need to go back to Chris' apartment."

"What?" John got to his feet, tea abandoned on the tabletop. "Sherlock, he's now a wanted criminal. He just stuck is in a walk in freezer and nearly froze us to death. And you want to go give him a surprise visit at his house?"

"Honestly, John, you don't _really_ think he'll be there, do you?" Sherlock said, giving him a derisive glance. "As you said, he is now a wanted criminal. He wouldn't go home; the one place that people know he's been before. That would be dumb, predictable, and if we know anything we know that Chris isn't."

"We do?"

"Yes, John, we do," Sherlock said with forced patience. "Because if he was predictable he wouldn't have agreed to meet the killer in the first place."

John frowned, not quite following his logic. "Okay...?"

Sherlock was already grabbing his coat, ignoring him. He tied his scarf and flipped up his collar. "Come, John. Let's go see if Mr. Christopher Allen is home."

 **9:34 PM:**

Sherlock broke down the door.

He didn't bother knocking, which John supposed was acceptable considering that Chris had tried to kill them.

The two of them moved in to find the apartment completely empty. Not a single thing remained from their last trip to the apartment, aside for the beat-up couch, coffee table and bed.

Sherlock kicked the wall in frustration and then gave the room a once-over. "Left in a hurry," he observed.

"How can you tell?"

"Cabinets and drawers were left open. Curtains shut, but not all the way, like he wanted to make sure that no one saw him but couldn't spare the time to completely close them," he rattled off. "Coffee table is off-kilter, like Chris pushed it aside to get to something underneath..."

Sherlock trailed off abruptly and bounded over to the table. He shoved it aside, roughly, and grinned in satisfaction. John walked over to see what he had found.

It was a trapdoor, handle cleverly hidden by the leg of the table. John raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Can't say I was expecting that."

Sherlock yanked his fingers through his hair. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he berated himself. "This must have been where Chris was when we broke into his apartment. This was how he knew we were coming. He heard me crack the code and knew that SR would be caught, and so he used that to his advantage. Oh... Chris was _smart_. _Very_ smart."

Sherlock leaned down and yanked open the trapdoor. It flew back with a loud thunk and John let out an exclamation of surprise.

At the bottom of a short ladder, there was a very dead body.

The body of the killer.

 **9:58 PM:**

Lestrade was yawning by the time he showed up at Chris' apartment. He didn't even seem all that surprised to find John and Sherlock sitting comfortably on the couch, talking idly and staring at the dead body in front of them.

"So... Chris killed the killer, huh?" Lestrade commented, letting his team do its work.

"Looks like," Sherlock agreed. "Chris wasn't sure how long SR would continue to need him, so he made certain that he could stay alive."

"By killing him," Lestrade finished, rubbing the back of his neck. "So now _Chris_ is the man we want to find."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "And I think I know where to find him."

Lestrade exchanged glances with John. John, used to these miraculous strokes of nearly-impossible brilliance by now, shrugged and followed his flatmate out of Chris' apartment.

The three of them caught a cab, and it didn't take long for them to arrive at Mrs. Allen's apartment. Sherlock pounded on the door. "Mrs. Allen! Let me in!" He twisted the knob and shoved the door foreword when she didn't respond within a few seconds.

The door flew open, and John realized that it had been unlocked the whole time. Sherlock stumbled in, and Lestrade and John followed, peering into the dark apartment. A muffled cry came from deeper inside, and the three of them broke into a run.

They found Mrs. Allen tied to a chair in her kitchen, a dishtowel wrapped around her mouth like a gag. John ran foreword and quickly pulled it out, and the older woman let out a gasp.

"Chris! He was- he was here," she stuttered. "He- he tied me up- I couldn't-"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Allen, but I'm afraid I just can't believe you," Sherlock said, glaring down at her. "Now tell me where your son is hiding."

"What?" Mrs. Allen gasped, her eyes wide. "What are you talking about? He left! Chris tied me up and left!"

"Again, I simply can't believe that," Sherlock repeated. "Hands, tied loosely. No matter how much Chris cares about you he just killed a man and if he wasn't completely sure of your devotion he would make absolutely sure you couldn't escape. The gag was a clean dishcloth, taken specially for covering your mouth. If Chris was really rushing to tie you up he would have grabbed the dishcloth you usually use, but it's hanging right over there on the oven door."

"So he wasn't in a hurry," Lestrade said. "That doesn't mean that they're working together."

Sherlock sent him a glare. "I wasn't finished," he snapped. "The chair was specifically pulled to the middle of the room, almost in the hallway. It was the first thing we saw when we walked in, meaning that we wouldn't have time to do any searching of the house before seeing Mrs. Allen. Chris could easily have hidden anywhere in this room, counting on the fact that we would see you and believe your story before we had time to make an theories of our own. Not only that, but there are no signs of struggle. He might be your son, but I can't imagine that you would let yourself get tied to a chair without at least knocking over a piece of furniture or that half-empty mug of tea on the dining room table."

"No," Sherlock continued, striding around Mrs. Allen and towards the curtains. "No, you're protecting him. This was planned."

He yanked back the gauzy grey curtain over the last window to reveal none other then Chris Allen.

 **10:43 PM:**

"How'd you know where he was?"

Sherlock glanced up from his dinner. He, having been on a case, hadn't eaten all day, and was steadily working through a large plate of pasta.

"Chris, I mean," John was sitting across from him with a slightly smaller portion of food. "How did you know which curtain he was behind? Lucky guess?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, my guesses are _never_ lucky."

He went silent, and John smirked, waiting.

"Oh, alright, yes, it was a lucky guess," Sherlock muttered, shoveling another bite of pasta into his mouth.

John laughed. "That's what I thought," he said, shaking his head. "I mean, you could have seen him moving or something but I think that I would have noticed that, too."

"No, no," Sherlock sighed. "No, I just used human nature as a guide. He probably figured that the last curtain would be the last one checked... though I don't see how that would really help him. It doesn't take that long to pull open a few curtains."

"Hiding behind a curtain." John shook his head, grinning. "Did he ever play hide-and-seek as a kid? That's the most predictable spot of all time."

"Mycroft used to hide under the kitchen table." Sherlock made a face. "Every. Single. Time. It's a wonder that he bothered to play with me after I was three years old and finding him in twelve seconds."

"Playing hide-and-seek with the Holmes brothers," John said, making a face. "That must be an... experience."

Sherlock grinned widely. "Oh yes. Or, it would have been, if Mycroft had switched up his hiding places a few times."

He paused, considering the noodles balanced on his fork. "I'm rather glad I guessed the curtain right, though," he admitted. "It would have been a bit embarrassing, running over there with all that bravado and opening up the curtain to reveal... the window."

John snorted, almost choking on his bite of food. "Yes, yes, that would have been rather anticlimactic," he agreed. "And you know. With you, it's all about the climax."

"Oh yes." Sherlock looked up, grinning. "Never a dull moment."

"No Netflix and Chill for us," John said, returning the grin.

"No, no, that'd be awful." Sherlock wiggled his eyebrows. "We take it to the next level."

"Cold Cases and Chill," John suggested. "Lots of chill. In a walk in freezer."

"Yep." Sherlock leaned back, resting his fork against his plate and gaze wandering to the closed window, across the living room of flat 221b. "That sounds about right."

 **Author's Note: OFFICIALLY MY LONGEST ONESHOT EVER! :O :O :O**

 **Tell me truly in the comments: DID YOU LIKE THIS?! It was SO FUN to write, and hopefully felt like a legitimate, if short, episode!**


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